The arts of November

Yesterday was our 365th posting. We have now made it through a year both chronologically and by blog-post count. Thank you to those who show up from time to time to see what we have to say around here. Were any of you up early enough this morning to see the brief, beautiful sunrise? I didn't move quickly enough to get a photo worth sharing. This afternoon's skies have cleared and the temperature is seasonal. Last night's arts book club meeting was a real pleasure. There were about seven of us, two staff and one intern from the Franconia Sculpture Park and four "civilians." The primary topic of conversation was the book Draw it with your eyes closed: The art of the art assignment (Paper Monument, 2012). The various arts represented (music, textile, visual, poetry, et. al.) made for insightful comparisons on similarities and dissimilarities in assessing the benefits and impacts of art on the creator and any audience. Between the setting and the conversation, I was briefly transported back to my younger days and time spent near or in Mad River, Vermont, hanging out with with some closet and some obviously "outed" hippies. Upon returning home from the sculpture park, we discovered that the front door pumpkins, which had been lightly nibbled the night before, must have tasted good enough that someone or something (deer most likely) had come back for a full course meal.

chewed on pumpkins (deer?)    © harrington

Although we missed capturing this morning's sun rise, on our way out last night, we grabbed an interesting shot of the moon through the oak branches. The November full moon is a few days away (the 17th). The Anishnaabe(Chippewa, Ojibwe) call it the freezing moon [gashkadino-giizis(oog)]. The shallow ponds and marshes are mostly frozen again. I think the name is apt,and more accurate than the Old Farmer's Almanac claim of beaver moon.

I wonder if Howard Nemerov was at St. Paul's Ginko Coffeehouse when he wrote this November poem.

The Consent

By Howard Nemerov 

Late in November, on a single night

Not even near to freezing, the ginkgo trees

That stand along the walk drop all their leaves

In one consent, and neither to rain nor to wind

But as though to time alone: the golden and green

Leaves litter the lawn today, that yesterday

Had spread aloft their fluttering fans of light.

What signal from the stars? What senses took it in?

What in those wooden motives so decided

To strike their leaves, to down their leaves,

Rebellion or surrender? and if this

Can happen thus, what race shall be exempt?

What use to learn the lessons taught by time.

If a star at any time may tell us: Now.

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